Letters to Lily
by Anrheithwyr
Summary: There was no need for her to find out how he really felt, was there?


_**Written for "The Letter Competition", by Potterheadx10. My word is 'evasive'. I think I sort of failed at that. It seems closer to 'frustrated'. But, I guess if the girl of your dreams is being evasive, you'd get frustrated. **_

_**/**_

_March 15, 1977_

_Dear Evans, _

_Are you aware that every time I look at your hair, I fall a little bit more in love? Or when your eyes turn to me-even when it's only to yell-I feel strangely, a tingle all over. Did you know you have that affect on me? Sometimes, I think you do, because it seems as if you're always swishing your hair whenever I'm around, as if it's just for me. But then you turn around and ask why I'm staring at you. How am I supposed to explain that I'm staring at you because you're pretty? Because that is honestly the only reason I stare. I don't know what sort of rumours everyone comes up with-about the girls I've been with, or the number I've kissed-but I'm sure most of it's false anyway. Most of it. _

_Do you **try **to torture me? Every time, every bloody time, I look at you, I think of just grabbing your cheeks and kissing you. I've had some weird dreams about you. Okay, that sounded weird. Wrong, even. Perhaps it's a good idea I'm not **actually **sending this letter to you-just like I didn't send the other letters. You'd only have further proof that I am obsessed. Yes, obsessed with you. Who wouldn't be, though? You're perfect, after all. Why is it, though, that you're always running away in my dreams? Why are you running at all-especially** away**? What's chasing you? _

_Why do you brush us all away? Even Alice, who everyone thinks is your closest friend, you push her away with excuse after excuse. And it's not just her or me, it's everyone. Like you're afraid to let us in and I can't understand why. You pull away, you retreat, you create secrets. What are your secrets? I guess it's obvious-even if I don't like it, I can't deny it-that Snape is, or at least was, your best mate, even more than Alice. I suspect you told him things you didn't tell anyone else. And I just have to ask-if you trusted him and, yeah he left you, but he was still your friend and he still knows stuff, but if you trusted him, why not me? Or at least Alice? Stop hiding, Evans. It's not cute. _

_I don't know what I've done to you. What is there that I **can **do, to make you like me? Because now, all you ever do is duck your head and turn away from me. You're hiding from me, or worse, you lash out and tell me excuses, excuses to explain why you can't date me. As of late, they've begun to sound a little empty, a little repetitive. Or is that just my imagination? Am I only imagining that your scathing put-downs are only a ploy? Someone's an elusive little minx, aren't they? _

_Can't you just, I dunno, give me some sort of explanation? Sure, I can see why maybe messing around with Snape is a bit much for you-**was **a bit much for you-but you're not exactly best mates anymore, are you? Oh Merlin, I said that wrong, didn't I? Listen, I'm trying. Can't you tell? I'm not sure if you're really looking at **me**, or only seeing the fifteen year old James who pranks everyone and doesn't care about anyone. I'm trying, Evans, I really am. But what do you care? Your dad isn't dead, is he? Of course not. _

_Sometimes, you really piss me off, you know that, Evans? You sit there on your high little throne and look down at all of us on the ground with the superiority. You judge us based off what you see. You think Sirius is immature, but you don't see the bruises. You think I'm arrogant, but you don't see the cigs I smoke to control my anxiety. You think Remus is sweet and kind, but you don't realise that sometimes, he's just as bratty as the rest of us. And Peter-everyone thinks Peter is just a hanger-on, a fan boy. Nobody, not even you, Miss Elusive, see that Peter is a good friend. A damn good friend. Who are you to judge me? You don't talk to me long enough to know me. _

_I suppose that some of us, like Peter, are made for the purpose of watching, of waiting. They don't really do anything-mostly just stand on the sidelines and exist. They're there but they're not **there**, you know? They dip a foot in the water but decide it's safer to stand on the shores. But then again, there are also people like Sirius-and I, to an extent-who, yes I admit it, recklessly plunge into everything. We jump in without considering the consequences. And then we have **you**. Hesitant, standing on the edge, you wait for someone to invite you in, to pull at you. At the same time, you're not sure what you'd do if we **did **pull you in. People like that, who hesitate, drown, Evans. I don't want you to drown. _

_I tried to talk to you yesterday, but you only skirted my questions, said something about homework and Prefect duty and everything else. Okay, I understand, but can't you give me just five minutes? Every time I think we're getting somewhere, you duck back into the shadows and drop a veil over your face. You don't know me, I don't know you. The difference is, I want to know you-and you won't let me. I could write letters and letters, entire books, really, about how much I love you, how much you drive me mad, but it doesn't matter. You won't look at **me**. _

_Stop hiding. Please? Stop wearing a mask and show me the real you. I want to see the real Lily Evans, behind the books, behind the friendship with Snape, behind the Perfect Prissy Prefect. Some people think you're a real bitch. I know better. You're not always a snob, you just hold yourself to high standards. You have to, though I'm not sure why. Maybe if you'd stop hiding, the entire world would realise-you're just like us. You **are **us. _

_I don't understand why just putting these words to paper, acting out the process of writing you a letter you'll never get, it makes me feel better. Why? I've written others, you'll never get. You'll never get this either, so don't worry. You'll never have to read me call you stuck up and a prude or anything else. Sometimes, I get a bit shirty when I 'write to you'. I always thought that being able to share emotions without fear of consequences means that you really trust a person. I trust you, Evans. Do you trust me? Do you trust anyone, besides yourself? Are you even capable of that anymore, or are you so broken, so deep, that all you can do is hide in the shadows. Enigma-that's the word to describe you. Unknown. A mystery. No matter what you do, they'll write books about you. And not one will capture the true Lily Evans because she is an elusive creature, a butterfly. If anyone can fly, it's certainly you, Evans. _

_Sometimes, in my dreams, I call you Lily and you call me James. Mostly we talk. But when I wake up the next morning, I can't remember a thing you said to me. It's all been left behind, because your past is a mystery to me and your future is undecided. _

_I'd like to apart of your future, if you'd let me in. _

_Maybe, just maybe, you ought to consider telling your secrets to someone. Not necessarily me-though I'd certainly appreciate it-but to someone. Mary, Marlene. Even that little Fourth Year, Emmeline or whatever. I suppose even Alice would listen. Sirius would listen, though not without a fight. But he'd listen. Would you listen to us, if we told you our stories, or would you just hide? Someday, a caterpillar's got to crawl out of it's chrysalis, wake up, and become a butterfly. You've got to be the butterfly, Evans. You've got to trust us. We've got to trust you. Because it all comes down to Voldemort. He's going to come one day and we might be the ones to stop him. But if you don't believe in us-hide from us, be the elusive caterpillar-he's going to defeat us all. _

_I'm going to sign this the way I usually do. Because it doesn't matter how I sign a letter you'll never get. You called me a liar when I said that I'd never sent you the flowers. But I hadn't. I didn't, I wouldn't, send you lilies. You told me to stop. I'm stopping. So, I'm going to sign this letter with my name, and then I'm going to burn it. You can't let us in, so I can't let you in. _

_Love, _

_Potter. _

_**/**_

James sighed, signing the letter with his usual elaborate flourish, so that the name was just barely discernible. This was the seventh letter now, written at night, when he really ought to be doing his homework. But Lily had that affect on him. She made even Quidditch seem useless in comparison.

Rubbing at his tired eyes, he dropped the letter into the fireplace, watching his words blacken and hiss in the flames.

_**/**_

_**I'd like to imagine this was written a few weeks after the death of James' dad, and about three months after the death of Lily's mum. Of course, neither know about the others deceased parent, so...yeah. **_


End file.
